


Child Of The Sun

by shockfactor



Series: This Grand Army [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Drug Abuse, Gen, Hearing Voices, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 01:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12400182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shockfactor/pseuds/shockfactor
Summary: I gotta keep smiling. It helps ease the ache, from what I've been told.





	Child Of The Sun

I've been serving in the Grand Army of the Republic's 501st Legion for two years. Feels longer.

I'm CT-6116, but my brothers call me Kix.

Doesn't mean anything particularly special, it's just a name.

I'm a combat medic.

Being a medic isn't easy in and of itself, but the droids make it even harder. Their targeting computers are unbelievably accurate, and the supers' laser cannons punch holes in troopers as big as my fist. Big, smoldering, festering holes that smell of burnt flesh and boiling blood. 

(Lightsaber wounds are even worse.)

But it's a job that needs doing. It's what I was born for. And my brothers count on me to make sure that they're going to get out of this Force-forsaken war alive. 

Nobody really cares for us clones. We're numbers in an expense statement, a roster, and a casualty report.

Which is why I have to care for us.

My brothers and I need someone who cares.

(I don't care about myself, though. I'd like to die, I'm tired of living. But who's gonna look after my brothers when I'm gone? I can't push that off on someone else. That's not how brothers treat one another.)

I have delivered medical assistance to 425 clones over my career in the GAR.

I have only 104 living patients. And that's not counting the ones who got treated multiple times, until they were so broken there was nothing left I could do to fix them.

Thrice was sobbing and screaming when he went. He was the first patient I lost. He was a rookie. He was so scared. I was so scared. I remember the design on his armor- teal, like the old Torrent Company colors, before the whole color thing became less strict. A ring around the visor.

I painted mine the same way. It felt right.

Patient 40, Kano, taught me more than any other brother had ever done. As he lay on the gurney, the life leaving him from the five holes in his torso, the Sergeant gave me an order. 

"Chin up, soldier. The men need your help."

I did. Even when the galaxy was falling apart, when the weight of the entire kriffin' universe was falling on my shoulders, I did my best. To comfort them. To make them believe that they had a friend, a brother, who loved them more than anything else in this galaxy. 

It meant the world to them. In some cases it made the passing easier for them.

I can hear them. Every night. They want me to join them.

Kix, you've done enough. Come and rest.

Why haven't I? I'm with a bunch of pirates, far from the Republic I served, all my brothers, every single one, now long dead... why do I persevere? Why was I the one who had to endure this? Give it to a soulless bastard like Bacara, or someone who could shoulder the burden, like Rex.

No.

The Force chose to fling me into the future, in a world where I have to look in the mirror and realize that I am the last of my kind, that I am a ghost amongst the living.

It hurts. But this Resistance? It's the last shot anyone has at getting the Republic back right. The First Order, The Empire- they were corruptions of everything the Republic fought for. What the Jedi fought for. What my brothers fought, bled, died for. I saw Pong Krell die for less treachery.

I may be the last clone alive. Which means that yet another burden is added to my shoulders. 

The nightmares.

The voices.

The feeling of fear every time I see a lightsaber.

The aches, physical and emotional.

The disgust I feel every time I look in a reflection.

And now, a medic, again. A soldier for the Resistance. These people alongside me aren't brothers, but they're friends. And I know that any other clone in my shoes would do what I'm doing without hesitation.

But they didn't. I have to roll up my sleeves again, polish my armor, and get back to work.

The 501st never runs from their duty.

And neither will I.

I'll keep smiling.

Saying the same, tired platitudes from all those years ago.

Comforting those who are about to leave this life.

Because it's my job. I'm good at it.

And as odd as it is to say this, it eases the ache.

Brothers... I hope you're proud. 6116 is still fighting. 


End file.
